


It Had to be You

by face70



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Drug Addiction, Flashbacks, Hell Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lucifer (Supernatural) in the Cage, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, OhSam November 2017 Comment Meme, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sam Winchester Drinks Demon Blood From Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, ohsam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/face70/pseuds/face70
Summary: A collection of H/c Sam - centric stories. Always taking prompts. Continuing work in progress, currently working off the OhSam November 2017 comment meme fic thingy!





	1. Chapter 1

“Casablanca? Seriously?”

“It’s a classic.”

“Yeah, just dad never really struck me as much of a Bogart fan boy.”  
  
Sam looked impressed.

“It’s a movie, Sammy. I know my movies.”

“Never really struck me as much as much of a Bogart fan boy.”  
  
Dean took the DVD-case from Sam. “Him, nah. Meg Ryan though?” He whistled.

Sam shook his head and looked at the pile of movies. It wasn’t like they had a lot of down time nowadays, but when they passed the bargain bin while stocking up on supplies Dean insisted on grabbing almost everything in sight because, _‘Half-off, Sammy! Half!’_

And wasn’t it some kind of sin for a film like _Casablanca_ to be tossed in with _Transformers_ and _Twilight_?

Sam paused and made a face. “Wait. Meg Ryan?”

Dean looked over the DVD and nodded.  
  
“She’s not…dude, it came out in the ‘40s.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” Dean waved the clearly black-and-white (and therefore _ooooold_ ) DVD box in his face.

“Yeah, okay. Then you know Meg Ryan wasn’t even born then?”

Dean immediately clammed up and shrugged while setting the box down. “Yeah, I know.”

“So...I’m missing something,” Sam said.

Dean ignored him, picked up the _Twilight_ DVD and turned it over. He read the back and snorted.

“Are you having a stroke?”

Dean stared at the back of the DVD and cleared his throat. “Look.”

Sam looked at him, confused.

“I was dating Cassie at the time.”

Sam was still confused. “…ok?”

Dean shifted in the armchair and finally tossed _Twilight_ away. “She liked this movie. It had a whole big Casablanca thing in it. Meg Ryan was in it.”

“Ok,” Sam said, “What movie?”

Dean muttered something.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“When Harry Met Sally.”

Ah. _Now_ Sam got it and he broke into grin. “That’s-“  
  
“Chick flick, yeah yeah, har har. Whatever, man. She could’ve put on Sixteen Candles and I wouldn’ta cared.”

“Well it obviously stood out. Guilty pleasure or something?” Sam asked.

“Oh yeah. Lots of guilty pleasure.”

“Dude. Too much info.”

Dean grinned and shrugged. “It’s not too bad – ‘least not for a chick flick. We should watch.” He spoke fondly.

“Seriously? You were just making fun of me for suggesting Casablanca.”

“Well yeah, that’s old. And no Meg Ryan in it.”

“I guess it’s better than that,” Sam looked at the discarded _Twilight_ DVD.

“That was never an option, Sammy. Find it online. I’ll grab beer.”

Sam watched his brother retreat into the kitchen and shook his head, still surprised. Maybe Dean was feeling nostalgic or something?

It was their first night off in a while so maybe it was cool to break the ‘no chick flick moment’ rule. Just for tonight.

Sam opened his laptop and popped over to a streaming service. A few clicks later and the movie was ready to go.

Dean reappeared, a six pack (guess you had to be drunk for this one?) in hand. He sat in the chair, handed Sam a beer, and popped open his own.

“Alright, let’s do this.”  
  
“You’re not finding this weird at all?”  
  
“Nope.”

“You don’t wanna watch Rocky or something?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Dean, seriously?”  
  
“Would you just start the damn thing?”

Sam couldn’t help his growing amusement, but he shrugged and pressed play.

Immediately a black screen. White text appeared and disappeared. Opening credits.

Playing out over a song. A familiar song.

Sam stared at the screen. His amusement disappeared, drained out of him in a heartbeat.

_“Come on, Sammy! You know the words by now.”_

Sam gripped his beer tight.

_‘Why me?’ He asked so long ago. When he first found out._

_‘Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you.’_

Sam stood, beer, Dean, the movie - everything forgotten. He walked, blindly, somewhere. Anywhere.  
  
He barely registered Dean calling after him.

_“You know, your mom and dad danced to this song at their wedding.”_

Sam felt his heart speed up.

_“Kind of romantic, right? Their song. Our song.”_

“Sam! Damn it, open the door. Sammy?”

_“Sammy.”_

“Sam!”  
  
“Just leave me alone!”

Sam was in his room, somehow. Ended up there with the door locked behind him. Ended up lying face down on his bed, hands gripping at his hair just trying to make everyone shut the hell up.  
  
“Sam! Seriously…man, seriously, what’s going on? Talk to me.”  
  
“Dean, please.”

_“Sammy..”_

“I just need a few minutes.”  
  
“Sam-“  
  
“Just a few minutes, I swear. Just give me a minute.”

Sam could feel his brother’s reluctance through the door.

“You’re not out in five, I’m kicking it in.”

Sam heard him walk away. Slowly.

_“Just you and me, Sam.”_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Pressed his temples, clutched at his hair.

But the devil still sang to him.

_“Some others I’ve seen,” Lucifer sang, closing in on him._

_Sam screamed in anguish._

_“Might never be mean~”_

_Sam looked at his hands. Trapped, both of them. Shackled. Rubbed raw._  
  
_“Might never be cross”_

_Blood in Sam’s eyes_

_“Or try to be boss~”_

_Agony_

_“But they wouldn’t do~”_

_Numbness. A weight. Lucifer leaning on him, against him._

_“For nobody else - gave me a thrill~”_

_Sam wretched. Lucifer moved his hands._

_“With all your faults~”_  
  
_Moved his hands lower._

_“I love you still~”_

_Sam wept. His eyes burned with the tears. They leaked out._  
  
_“It had to be you, wonderful you~”_

 _Lucifer was merciless. In him, in all the ways that mattered._  
  
_“It had to be you~!”_


	2. How Little it Matters (How Little We Know)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean kicks the freakin door down.

00:05:00

Freakin’ Billy Crystal.

Freakin’ bargain bin. Freakin’ door. Freakin’ lock.

One night. Just one.  
  
They couldn’t have that. Couldn’t watch a girly movie in peace.

And who’s fault was it? Dean had a hunch.

00:04:57

Dean didn’t go far. Walking away from that door’d been like walking through mud.

Sam needed a few minutes. He was getting five and it was five too many.

Dean stood sentry at the end of the hall and glared in the direction of Sam’s bedroom.

Because what the hell?

What the _hell?_

Probably literally, Dean thought - simultaneously sick with worry and anger.

The thing was, he couldn’t place it – what happened or what triggered it. Not that Sam ever needed an actual thing to trigger him into some kind of episode, but this one seemed like that’d been exactly what happened.

Sam sitting there happy, no doubt silently judging Dean’s choice in movie, and then bang- running like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

00:04:42

Dean tapped his toe. He wasn’t really known for his patience – particularly concerning a messed up Sam.

He didn’t hear anything coming from down the hall, only the music from the movie still playing in the next room.

Sam didn’t talk about hell. Which, ok, preaching to the choir ‘cause Dean wasn’t exactly spilling his guts about his time down under either.

But Sam’s experience was beyond hell (which, honestly, Dean couldn’t really fathom) – the cage.

When he thought about it, really sat and just thought, damn it he was proud of them.

Vertical. No lost marbles (well…more or less).

But sometimes, all that nasty came out in them. Dean found the bitter irony in it – they killed demons for a living, but they couldn’t kill _their_ demons. 

So whenever his started clawing out, Dean drowned’em. Drowned the sons of bitches in whatever he could get his hands on.  
  
Whiskey. Women. Hunting.  
  
Cathartic. Blue collar therapy.

Sam, though – well as much as Dean knew his brother, much as they were like some kind of yin and yang situation, Dean didn’t really know how Sam dealt with his inner demons.

At least not nowadays. In the past, sure. Anger.

Sometimes booze, but not much. Not women really. Sammy just wasn’t a love’em and leave’em type like his big brother.

00:03:35

Dean glared at his watch then looked down the hall.

Screw this.

“Sam!” he said while banging on the door. Hard.

No answer. Dean pressed his ear to the door.

Murmurs broken up by a choked sob. A freakin’ _whimper._

“..no..” he heard.  
  
Screw this big time.

“Hang on, just sit tight.” Dean charged the door shoulder-first. It hurt like a bitch, it would bruise purple, but he was just gonna keep making it worse until that friggin’ thing came down.  
  
He slammed into it again. And a third time. Then he kicked. The doorframe groaned at him, the door itself trembling with every slam.

Then it splintered and he rammed his way through. The door frame busted, half of it falling and the other half hanging with the door came crashing down.

And Dean with it.  
  
He straightened and stood, just looking at Sam on the bed.

Then he hurried to him, grabbed his shoulder gently and let out a, “Hey.”

Sam’s fingers tightened in his hair, knuckles white. But then he relaxed, let his hands fall. He shook his head.

“..sorry.”  
  
“What happened?” Dean reached around Sam, tried to get him to sit up. “I’ve got you…we’re good, Sam. Just tell me what happened.”

Sam looked up. Slow and reluctant.

Shame. Embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he repeated and Dean knit his brows.

“Quit apologizing. Sammy, you gotta tell me what’s going on with you.”

Sammy didn’t and instead looked at the door. He half-smiled. “You broke in?”

“Sam..”

Little brother ran a hand down his face and looked back to Dean. Still reluctant, which made Dean’s hunch a lot more than a hunch.

“The cage?” Dean asked.  
  
Sam flinched, getting that far away look, but nodded. “Yeah.”

“It’s been a while. Since something like this. You’re not… you know,” Dean looked left then right, past his shoulder and back to Sam.

“No – no, not now.”

“Then..?”

“It was, uh. It was the song.”  
  
Dean was confused.

“The movie – the credits. The song playing.” Sam was so soft spoken – Dean wasn’t a fan.

“Ok,” Dean encouraged.

Sam finally looked away, at his hands in his lap. He dug his fingers into an old, faded scar on one palm.

“It was just a ..memory. I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Sorry, Sammy, but when you haul ass and lock yourself in a dark room you kinda lose your secrecy privileges.”

More shame than embarrassment now.

“Lucifer,” both brothers made a grim face. Sam continued, “..he liked that song I guess. The Sinatra one – It had to be you.”

Sam’s eyes watered at the title. Dean squeezed his shoulder. 

“Random,” Dean said.

“Yeah. Well…I mean, it… I guess he liked it because it was just one more way to get at me.”  
  
“He’s off by a few decades – unless you’ve been listening to some Rat Pack without me.”

Sam managed another hollow smile. “Mom and dad – I guess it played at their wedding. They danced to it.”

Dean frowned.  
  
“And it kind of… fits.”  
  
Dean chewed on his tongue.

“Destiny or whatever. Even if we got through it, I was still… I mean all paths led to me,” Sam continued, getting that weird far away look again.

_It had to be you, Sam._

Dean stared at his brother.  
  
“He called it romantic.”

Dean blanched, gripped Sam’s shoulder tight.

“Made for each other. In every way that count-”  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Dean jerked Sam back to reality. He blinked, like coming out of a daze.

Dean stared at Sam.

He always knew. He always knew it, way deep down somewhere dark.

Hell had a lot of horrors. Hell, life did, too. There were some things in both worlds that scar a soul more than anything else.

Some ways a person – or an angel – could make themselves a part of you in a way you could never erase.

Dean grabbed Sam’s other shoulder, hauled all six-foot-four of him close and hugged him tight.

Sam didn’t hug him back. Just sat there

_And took it_

But he set his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. Exhaled a soft, shaky sigh.

“It’s ok Dean… not a big deal, just a little freak out.”


	3. Sam and Bobby McGee (promptfic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking prompts. This chapter's prompt comes from sylvia37
> 
> "Season 6 timeline after Sam has his soul back. The boys are on a hunt with Bobby who is still a little wary of Sam. When things get hairy, Bobby 's fear causes him to makes a mistake that gets Sam hurt. Cue angry Dean, remorseful Bobby and forgiving Sam."

Once a drunk always a drunk.

Bobby grew up knowing that. Not that his daddy ever went and tried to stop drinkin’ but if he had, it wouldn’ta lasted.

Because his daddy was a no good drunk. It was in the man’s DNA and he’d’ve died with a bottle in his hand.

If Bobby hadn’t shot him in his melon.

It wasn’t the booze, though. Not really. Hell, Bobby drank and so far hadn’t made a habit of beatin’ on women and kids.

No, the drink was just fuel for a fire that was already there, burning red hot.  
  
His daddy was a monster, with or without his whiskey.

Though the whiskey didn’t help.

That’s when Bobby knew – it’s in the blood. What makes a monster a monster.

Proved pretty damn true in his line of work. Once they took that first step, there was no goin’ back for the supernatural baddies he fought and killed over a lifetime.

A little more literal than the old man, yeah. But tried and true, they never stopped bein’ what they were.

Which was why Bobby watched Sam like a hawk.

And it hurt. It hurt to do that because this kid was like a son.

A son that tried to kill him in cold blood.

Sure. Bobby knew it wasn’t _Sam_ Sam exactly, but it was still him. Still recognizably Sam in too many ways for it to just not be Sam at all.

He forgave the kid. Mistakes and all that. Lots of “Never would’ves” and “I’m so sorry’s.”

Forgiveness, though – the funny thing about it?

It didn’t get rid of the fear. The paranoia.

Because how sure were they, _really_ , that Sam wouldn’t up and go postal on them again?  
  
He’d done it before. They had an almost-apocalypse to show for it.

Sam’d done it with his soul intact.

Bobby gripped his gun tight and followed after the boys. He was guilty as hell, never wanted to feel anything remotely close to this about either of’em.  
  
But damn it, he was human.

“I’m taking the basement. Sam, you and Bobby hit the attic.”

Bobby kept his mouth shut and followed Sam.

It was a milk run. Find the locket, salt and burn it, and Elaine Banner could find peace and stop killin’ cheatin’ husbands in vengeance.

Sam didn’t say much. Probably wouldn’t.  
  
Sam was a smart kid. He knew something was up. And damn Bobby for bein’ so obvious about it.

“Attic seems like a weird place to keep a locket,” Bobby said to break the tension.

“Let’s hope it’s there.”

They climbed the ladder into the attic which was startlingly full.

They stepped around boxes, over a rolled up rug. If the locket was here, it was packed up.

Sam started first, whipped out his knife and opened up a bigger box marked ‘fragile.’

Bobby waited, just a sec. Watched.

Just the two of’em up here, huh?

Bobby needed to relax a little, loosen up. This was Sam - and Dean was downstairs.

“Nothing in here – Bobby, you got anything?” Sam looked over.

Bobby shook his head, “Nothin’ yet. Try that small one – yeah, in the corner. Might be a jewelry box in there.”

“You got an eye for jewelry boxes?”

“Har har.”  
  
They exchanged smiles then continued.

“Guess you really do have an eye for’em,” Sam laughed. He held the locket in one hand, a little ornate box in the other.

Bobby looked over, “Well alright, let’s light that thing up and get the hell outta here.”

Sam didn’t make a move. Instead, he stared straight at Bobby who wasn’t sure if it was a ‘deer in headlights’ look or somethin’ a little less innocent.

Bobby stared back, picked his gun back up. Because it was just the two of’em up here and maybe Sam realized that too.

Sam didn’t waste a second and shot up. He ran at Bobby, charged like a bat outta hell with something in his eyes Bobby’d seen more than once.

That look was for somethin’ that needed killin’ – and Sam was still lookin’ right at him.

Two things happened. It got cold – real cold, real quick. And then it got hot.

And a bang – a big, loud, gunshot bang screamed out while that heat burned hotter.

Bobby looked behind himself just in time to see Elaine Banner burn up and disappear.

Bobby looked forward just in time to see Sam drop to the ground, a whole lotta blood flowing from his shoulder.

Where Bobby shot him.

Shot the kid who hadn’t been comin’ at him, but’d just saved his sorry ass in the nick of time.

“Damn it – Sam, you ok?”

Sam grunted in a way that answered well enough.

Bobby set his gun down and hurried to the kid’s side. “Let me see – damn it.”

Sam still wasn’t lookin’ at him or sayin’ much. Though for a new reason now. “I’ve had – ah … worse. Is Dean..?”

Bobby’d been applying pressure, but pulled back and nodded. “I’ll get him. You stay put-“  
  
“What the hell?”

“Or not,” Bobby muttered. He got out of the way as Dean dropped to his brother’s side.

“Sam…damn it! What happened?”

“Misfire,” Sam answered before Bobby managed a peep.

“Freakin’ misfire? A misfire, seriously? Crap – Bobby, you got any first aid crap on you?”

Bobby looked up from Sam’s pained expression – from the blood.

“In the bags at the motel. Sam took care of the spirit. Let’s get him to the car and we’ll take care of him there.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue.

“It’s a shoulder shot – I can make it, the drive’s short.”

Dean scowled at his brother but it lacked any bite. “You’ve got a bullet in you. We need to get that thing out.”

“I’ve had worse,” Sam echoed.

Dean signed, frustrated, and looped an arm around Sam. “C’mon.”

Bobby grabbed the other side and felt Sam tense up on his end.

They moved down, clumsy and pretty ungraceful, but made it to the Impala.

The whole time no one said a word (outside of Dean’s _‘You’re good – it’s good, it’s gonna be okay, Sammy’_ ).

All of which was static to Bobby.

Because somehow, by the grace of God, his hand slipped.

Bobby wasn’t the type to aim for a non-vital.

So getting Sam in the shoulder? Miracle.

Miracle for a son of a bitch who deserved anything but.

They loaded Sam in the car and Dean peeled out. Bobby looked in the back seat, at Sam holding Dean’s flannel to his shoulder and squeezing his eyes in pain.

“What happened?” Dean demanded. He glanced from Sam to Bobby, “And don’t tell me it’s a misfire, this isn’t friggin’ amateur hour.”

Sam opened his mouth but it was Bobby’s turn to jump the shark.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, and meant it.

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

Bobby glanced at Dean then looked back to Sam. “It wasn’t an accident.”

The tires screeched and the road turned to rubble. Dean veered off the highway, fuming in anger.  
  
“Care to explain?” he asked, reaching for his gun.

“He doesn’t trust me.”

Bobby and Dean looked at Sam.

“It’s ok…I understand,” he winced in pain, “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“Sam...”

There was that guilt again and Bobby deserved every ounce of it.

A drunk’d always be a drunk.

A monster – always a monster.

It’s in the blood, in the DNA.

Something that you couldn’t come back from – no one ever did in a lifetime of hunting.

Sam was nothin’ if not human. That kid was no damn monster.

Bobby was pretty damn ashamed it took him ‘til now to really get that.


	4. Can't Drown Your Demons (Pt I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon Dean's kind of a dick.  
> A dick that knows 'once an addict, always an addict.'

**PROMPT: Guest –** “:I like the idea of demon Dean hurting Sam while Sam's trying to heal him... love your work btw! :)”

 

* * *

 

Four shots.

That was like a normal night for Dean.

Different kind of shots, sure.

Sam smiled to himself. He’d get that Dean back. Tired, he loaded up the fifth syringe with blood and turned to face his brother.  
  
Black eyes stared back.

Sam grimaced. He looked down and walked forward.

“You know, Sammy?”  
  
Sam looked up a little.  
  
“I’m gonna get you back for this. You know that, right?”

“You already have. More than once. Lame ass. Fires. Remember?” Sam said.

“All those times, sticking my neck out for someone who didn’t wanna be saved- wasn’t worth savin’ – how could I forget?

“You still did everything you could. Still saved me and I’m glad you did.”

“Sure. Glad now. What about in that church, though?”

Sam stared at Dean.  
  
“Maybe if you finished the job, put hell outta business, we wouldn’t be in this little mess right now.”

Sam stabbed the needle into Dean’s neck and pushed down on the plunger.  
  
“Three more. Just bear with it,” he muttered.

Dean howled in agony. He thrashed in the chair he was tied to.

Eventually, he stopped moving.

Sam turned away and went back to the table to occupy his good hand. He needed something, anything to distract him from the pain this was causing Dean.

But damn it. It was for his own good.

“Hell…of a kick. That’s the good stuff, huh, Sammy?”

Sam ignored him, but he was relieved. At least he wasn’t killing his brother – hopefully.

“Hell of a kick. Wasn’t that way for you though. Right?” Dean continued.

Sam put down the syringe and counted the few that remained.

“Nah. You got the good kicks.”

Sam looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Must’ve been a lot less pain and a lot more high for you. Blood. Demon.” He flashed his eyes from black to green. “Just sayin’ this must be bringin’ back a lot of memories.”

“No. Not really.”  
  
“Right. Right, yeah. No one forced you to choke down all that demon blood.”  
  
They stared at each other. Dean smiled.  
  
“That was all you.”

“Okay. Yeah. Sure, I’ve made mistakes, Dean, but-“  
  
“Oh yeah. Yeah, Sam. Just the apocalypse. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

Sam felt a lump in his throat. They’d been over this, put it to bed years ago.

“Hit a nerve there, Sammy? Look man, I ain’t judgin’ – not anymore. I know what it’s like. Hell, you’ve seen me blow through a bottle of whiskey in a night.”  
  
Sam frowned.  
  
“That’s how I know – one addict to another – it never really goes away. Not really. So I gotta ask. You still get the cravings? Still miss that little kick?”  
  
Sam knit his brows and Dean’s eyes went black.  
  
“Feel free to tap the keg, Sammy. I won’t be mad.”

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away. What if being a demon was like alcohol? A little truth shining in the midst of a drunken ramble?

“Just hang on. Just a few more hours.” Sam packed up to leave. Screw keeping Dean company. He could sulk in the darkness until it was time for the next round.

He made it three steps and then stopped in his tracks. He looked around, confused, sweat on his brow when Dean laughed.  
  
“Funny thing about the cure, Sammy.”

Sam looked at Dean in horror. Dean who was now standing nose to nose with him.  
  
“It ain’t exactly a linear process.”

One second Sam couldn’t move and the next he flew through the air and smack into the chair Dean occupied seconds ago. He cried out and fell in a heap, pain shooting up from his spine.  
  
Sam struggled to push himself up with his good arm. Dean was on him in a heartbeat, a hand around Sam’s throat.  
  
“You’ve been goin’ at this hard. Where was this dedication when I was in purgatory?”  
  
Sam gasped for air, grabbed at Dean’s hand.

“Doesn’t matter – you’ve been doin’ a bang up job here, Sammy. Real professional. Think I’ll return the favor. You’re wantin’ it bad, right? Well, you earned it.”

“No,” he choked out.  
  
Dean hurled Sam at the wall, watched him crumple. He turned to the table and grabbed an unused syringe while Sam struggled on the floor.  
  
He was in front of Sam before he could sit up, waving the syringe in his face.

“Dean,” Sam backed into the wall, “Dean, _no!_ ”

Dean jammed the needle in his own arm and filled it with blood.


	5. Can't Drown Your Demons (Pt II)

Sam stared at his big brother, wide eyed in terror. This couldn’t be happening again. He barely made it out by the skin of his teeth the first time.

But there was a part of him, way deep down in the dark, that was tight with anticipation.

Sometimes there’s a crack that never gets filled but for one specific thing in the world.  
  
It can be stuffed with other things, healed and stitched together, but it’s never gone.  
And there’s only one thing that fits in it perfectly like a puzzle piece.

Sam stared at the vial, full and red with blood. Liquid power to Sam. Liquid confidence, like a sling shot to being another person entirely.

Even if it wasn’t a good person, it was still one with purpose. One that belonged somewhere.

Sam didn’t have that. Never had that before.

Only the destiny he was promised, the one where he was a monster, offered that kind of belonging.

And right now, it was within reach and he had Dean’s blessing. Sort of.

The temptation was palpable. A man can only take so much.

Sam looked up from the blood, caught his brother’s eyes.

“Dean,” he said softly, “Please. _No_.” For all Sam’s pleading, it just seemed to stoke the flame of whatever warped satisfaction Dean was getting out of this.

Dean combed a hand through Sam’s hair, the other fidgeted with the syringe and he locked eyes with his brother.

“I wonder what would happen we injected this right in there,” he said, tapping the syringe against Sam’s arm. “Or maybe I can shoot it in your mouth.” Dean smirked, his free hand slid down Sam’s cheek, thumb rubbing over his lips. “Kinda seems like that’s how you might like it. Messy. Au naturale.”

Sam reddened, tried to look away if not for Dean’s iron grip.

“Come on, Sam. Don’t play shy. You were perfectly happy to slut it up for Ruby, right? Big brother was away so Sammy decided to play.” Dean looked at the blood in thought.

“If you do this, you’re gonna kick your own ass. After me I mean,” Sam said.  
  
“Not asking nice anymore? That was short.”

“I’m serious,” Sam barked,  
  
“Oh yeah. I can tell.”

“I mean it’s risky for you, right? Is that why you’re stalling? You give me that and I can exorcise you. I could kill you, Dean.”

“Hold your horses tiger,” Sam glared while Dean continued, “Isn’t much for you to exorcise in this case. And the way I figure, you’ll be too doped up to think about killing me – not that you would anyway. I mean, come on Sam. Really?”

Dean brought up the syringe and stuck his thumb in Sam’s mouth to pry it open. “Nah, you wouldn’t. The way I see it, Sammy, you probably won’t be able to think about anything except for the sweet liquid gold pumpin’ through these veins.”

Dean crossed the line already, but this was too far gone. After everything, _everything,_ it wasn’ just the demon blood. It was everything it meant – everything that came with it.  
  
Sam couldn’t do this again. He wouldn’t.

Sam lurched against his brother, bit down hard on the fingers in his mouth. His wide eyes frantically searched for the syringe and he kicked at it when he found it. Anything to try and smash it and the blood inside and keep it as far away as possible.

Dean jerked back in surprise which promptly turned to anger. Sam’d nailed his wrist which stung now like a bitch, but Dean’s grip on the syringe was ironclad. Sam was writing under him like a damn snake. And Dean hated snakes.

He brought down a fist on Sam’s skull, listened to the cracks and snaps of his knuckles pounding against bone. He felt warmth trickling through his fingers, sticking to Sam’s hair. His blood or his brother’s – it didn’t matter because Sam was going limp against the wall while Dean pummeled him to a pulp.

Sam got in a few good licks. The kid had a hell of a right hook that had Dean spitting out a mouthful of blood. Right at Sam’s face which put the kid right where Dean wanted him.

Blinded, beaten. Backed literally into a wall.  
  
Sam’s head lolled forward and he panted, heavy and gasping breaths that told Dean he knocked the air out of him. Dean jumped at the chance. He gripped Sam’s hair, jerked his head back, and squirted blood into his brother’s gaping mouth.

It pooled there, in the back of Sam’s throat, and he choked on it. Dean tossed the syringe aside, forgotten, and clamped a hand over Sam’s lips, his other hand pinching Sam’s nose.

The kid struggled, flopped like a fish out of water. He shut his eyes tight, fingers curling around Dean’s arms to push and push but go nowhere.

Then Dean saw it. The tell tale bob of an Adam’s apple.

Dean pulled back, let Sam get a little air through his nose, but he kept the hand planted on his mouth. Kept it there because knowing the little shit he’d just spit it right back up.

He couldn’t though if Dean held him down long enough. Sam’d swallow some, even if it was just a little and just by accident.

It’d be enough.

Something like a chill crawled up Dean’s spine. His spin pricked with goosebumps as he kept Sam pinned to the wall.

Taking this away, taking away the cleanliness, the purity that Sam could never really achieve but still tried so hard to – ripping that away and throwing him back into the dark?

Addictive. The demon in Dean could get addicted to this. Easy.

Dean held him down and watched as though he’d just lit the fuse to a bomb. Looked for signs, anything. Come to think of it, he’d never actually seen Sam in the act of drinking the blood. Just the aftermath. Watching it gave him another little thrill.

Dean’s attentiveness was rewarded because all the tension in Sam started leaking out like air in a flat. Sam swallowed again, lips parting as if in search of more. Dean sucked in a breath when Sam’s tongue swiped against his palm.

“There you go, Sammy. I’ve got you. Good stuff, right?”

“Dean!”

Dean felt himself ripped away from Sam, felt inescapable arms sliding around his chest that might as well’ve been chains. He roared in anger, wrath incarnate, fury in his black eyes that he turned on Cas.

“It’s over, Dean,” the angel said in that authoritative tone. Castiel looked past the shoulder of his demonic charge, looked at Sam sloped against the wall looking dazed with a too-red mouth and blood on his lips. “Oh Dean…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc?  
> taking prompts


	6. Lightweight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Spnshannanigans:  
> Loving this! I have a thing for drunk or drugged Sammy and awesome big bro Dean. That would be my prompt, taken any way you like. Thanks!

 

“The credit cards’ve been working fine. When do you even use cash anymore?” 

“Gotta change it up, Sammy. Keep’em on their toes.”

“..what?”

Dean glanced up the bartender (Erin, whose number he already had in his pocket) and took the beers. “Forget it. We could use a little time off anyway.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Sam said. He took his beer from Dean, took a drink and looked over to the pool table.

A few guys swarmed the table, their hulking frames outlined in smoky neon. They were definitely the loudest bunch in the place, no doubt the reason they were about to become the unfortunate marks of his hustler of a brother.

“Well,” Dean said as he slid off his seat, “Time to bring home some bacon.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Don’t wait up, Sammy.”

Sam watched Dean make a beeline for the pool tables and immediately strike up conversation. Not too difficult considering a couple of those guys had been looking at the two of them since they walked in.

They didn’t give off any particular vibe, at least nothing different than a million seedy bars in a million different towns.

The crack of the cue ball making contact rang out and the game was a go. Dean wouldn’t win the first game. Never did. It had to be the second or third one – that was the key.

And speaking of keys, Sam checked his pocket for his. Even if they did deserve a little mini-vacation, Sam didn’t exactly want to spend it alone. Dean was dead set on gaming, though, so Sam might head back a little early.

Things were good between them lately. Real good. Actually, this whole night was pretty nostalgic.

Sam grabbed his beer and took another swig. A nice, easy-going night. 

At least until he looked in the mirror and locked eyes with someone. 

Someone watching him. Caught, the man looked away.

Sam stared in the mirror, smoky back rooms, beer and Dean forgotten. The guy looked normal enough. No freaky faces in the reflection. Dark hair specked with white, thinning. A big guy. Alone, maybe?

Sam wasn’t subtle. His eyes stayed locked on the stranger’s reflection. By the time the beer he was gripping warmed up a second man finally showed, one that seemed to know stranger number one.

They talked. It was too loud to hear, but they talked and it didn’t exactly look light hearted. The first man looked in the mirror, looked Sam dead in the eye, and smirked over the rim of his scotch.

“De-“ Sam started, his mouth cottony and tongue heavy. “Dean.” What he meant as a shout came out as a sleepy afterthought.

Sam looked to find his brother, turned too quick and had to stabilize against the bar to keep standing. It was like the rug, or maybe the whole damn world’d been pulled out from under his feet. He’d been drugged enough times to recognize the effects.

Sam saw Dean still by the pool table behind a growing crowd and was instantly relieved. If he got to Dean, they could get the hell out of here and figure this out.

With a push off the bar, Sam tried to make for Dean. He stopped dead in his tracks, instead stumbling into a table. He held onto it and tried to right himself. The world was a spiraling blur, grey haze smoking out the fuzzy red and blue neon lights.

“Hey! What – oh man. Hey, you ok buddy?” asked the man Sam ran into. Sam shook his head, felt sweat on his brow, and cracked an uneasy smile that quickly fell away.

“My, uh – my brother…” He tried to gesture to the pool tables, tried to push himself up and start walking again while the man watched him in concern. Sam got a few steps before running into something else, this time much less solid and a lot more human.

“I’ve got you, brother. Had a bit too much to drink, huh?” someone said. They weaved an arm under Sam’s shoulder, supporting him, and started walking towards the door. Away from the pool tables.

“Wait – who- wait...” Sam slurred.

They moved through the bar in a blur. Faces and lights and smoke and the stark scent of alcohol. Sam was no lightweight, knew he felt something pumping through his system. His erratic heartbeat slowed and Sam grew serene. He leaned into the warm stranger carrying him away from the loud and suffocating place they’d been, didn’t care much where they were heading as long as it was quiet.

Which it was now. Quiet and dark.

Sam came to, groggy but with rising concern. He pushed up, cold metal under his fingers, and realized whatever it was was moving.

“A van…?” he asked the darkness, not expecting an answer – though he got one.

“Hey Rick,” a man said. He banged on the wall behind him, “He’s awake.”

“Just keep him cooperative,” came the muffled reply.

“You heard’im. Just play nice and we won’t have to go messin’ up that pretty boy face.”

* * *

 

Dean was up 600 bucks and feelin’ damn good. It was closing time, time to send Sammy home with the winnings and look up sweet Miss Erin to finish off the night on a high note. He shot his pool counterparts a smirk, all of’em sulking in defeat as they hulked away. Patting the fat wad in his pocket, Dean looked over to the bar in search of a familiar mop of brown hair.

Except it wasn’t there. Dean hadn’t exactly been hawkish in checking up on Sammy tonight because hey, things’d been good lately. No one on their tail, Sam wasn’t being particularly suspicious or sneaking off. So big brother duty took a vacation too.  
  
Except now, big brother radar was sending off alarm bells. Dean looked at his phone for missed calls or texts and found none. Sam wouldn’t just take off, not without some kind of heads up, but the patrons of the bar didn’t seem spun up from any kind of dramatic scene.

So what the hell?

He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but Dean called anyway. It picked up after the second ring.

“Sammy?”

“Winchester.”  
  
Dean white knuckled the phone. “Where’s my brother?”  
  
“Cool your jets, big man. Pretty boy’s just fine.”  
  
“If you hurt him, I swear to God-“  
  
“I said calm down.”  
  
Dean left the bar, walked toward the Impala. “What do you want?”

“There you go, that’s more like it. Alright kid. We’re thinkin’ a little trade off. Rumor has it you’ve got a little somethin’ in your hideout that we’ve been lookin’ for.”

“Okay, what. I bring you this thing and you give him back in one piece?”  
  
“Who said anything about one piece?”  
  
“Listen you son of a bitch-“  
  
“Only kiddin’ son, calm down. Yeah, more or less. Though you better hurry. A lot of hunters out there’d pay good money to get their hands on your little brother. A little payback for that whole end of the world thing.

“Fine. What am I looking for?” Dean climbed into the car and peeled out, heading for the bunker.  
  
“It’s a book.”  
  
“That’s specific.” He heard Sam bark in pain. “Don’t touch him!”

“Then lose the attitude. But yeah, a book. Book of the Damned actually. Hopin’ for Sammy’s sake you’ve still got it.”

“Fine. It’s yours. Time and place?”

“I’ll text you. Don’t be late.”  
  
The line went dead. Dean glared at his phone and knit his brows. A vacation. Yeah right. 

* * *

 

Dean pulled up outside the little shack of a house. It looked uninhabited except for the lights on inside, the only lights around considering they were in the middle of bumble-hell nowhere.

He got out, gun tucked in his belt and book in one hand. “Alright you sons of bitches, I’ve got your damn book. Give me back my brother,” he shouted.

Four men appeared, one of them limp and being dragged.

“Sammy?” Dean watched his brother for a reaction and didn’t get much except for a dizzy glance in his direction. He turned his attention to the only man not holding Sam, the leader Dean guessed. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s fine. Just a little doped up.“  
  
“What the hell did you give him?”

The man gave Dean the once over and sighed. “Rohypnol. He’ll be fine-“  
  
“You _roofied_ my brother?”

“Look at’im – if we didn’t someone else woulda – and for a different reason probably,” one of the men holding Sam said, grinning.  
  
The other laughed, “Pretty boy’s practically askin’ for-“

They all jumped when a gunshot fired out, bullet blasting two feet from the second man.  
  
“Jesus!”

“You shut the hell up or next time it’ll be your friggin’ head,” Dean promised, furious.

“Woah, hey – let’s everybody just calm down,” the leader said, raising his hands. “You two,” he glanced his counterparts, “Kid’s right. Shut the hell up. Anyhow – alright, Winchester. That the book?”

Dean kept the gun trained on the smart mouthed bastard. Just for another second, finger itching to blast his ass into yesterday. Glaring, he lowered the gun and lifted the book, waving it.

“Yeah, I got it,” he grunted, “Send one of’em over with Sam.”

“You heard the man,” the leader said with a careful nod. The second man, the mouthy bastard, started walking. Roughly the same height, Sam leaned into him, relying on the support. Dean reddened in anger when he saw the man hug his brother in closer than necessary.

“Why you so interested in this thing anyway?” Dean asked the leader, eyes never leaving Sam. “It’s dark stuff. You guys tryin’ to work that kinda mojo? None of it works without a cost.”

“Oh, we’re well versed in that. Nice of you to worry about us, though.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean grunted.

He watched the man and Sammy trudge their way over. Dean reached out, arm slipping up under Sam’s shoulder while the man took the book from his other hand.  
  
“I’ve got you- I’ve got you, Sammy, we’re good.. man they didn’t skimp on the drugs, huh,” he noticed, irate.  
  
“You know,” the man said as the exchanged Sam, “He’s been a cooperative captive. Real cooperative.”

Dean glared at the man, “The hell’s that supposed to mean.”  
  
The man shrugged, grinned and let Sam fall into Dean’s waiting arms. He tucked the book up under his arm, turned to start walking, and looked at them a last time. “Maybe there’s somethin’ in this book that’d keep’im that way, nice'n pliant. Sure wouldn’t mind having that sweet piece of ass-“  
  
Dean lunged, tackled him, letting Sam fall out of his grasp. “You got a death wish you son of a bitch? Cause I’m gonna kill you!”  
  
“Dean!”  
  
Castiel’s call wasn’t enough to break Dean’s frenzy. He straddled the bastard, pummeled him in seething fury. His fists connected, over and again, blood bubbling up from the man’s skull, streaming down his nose as black and purple welts rose across his face.  
  
Right – the plan. Castiel waiting for the right moment. Well, screw the plan.

While Dean beat the ever loving crap out of the one thug, Castiel retrieved the book. The other two men had their guns drawn and never fired. Castiel was on them too fast, a gentle tap on both their foreheads, and they burned from the inside out. The two sizzled corpses fell into the mud.

Castiel appeared at Dean’s side and watched with a frown. “Dean,” he tried. No effect. Dean’s blows had slowed, the man under him unmoving, but he didn’t stop.  
  
“Dean,” Cas said, louder, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Sam.”

That stopped him. Dean looked over his shoulder to Sam lying in the mud and struggling unsuccessfully to push himself up. He rolled off of the unconscious man and ran to his brother.

“Hey...hey, Sammy, hey. You with me?”

“..Dean..?” It was quiet, strained like Sam forgot how to talk. Dean’s fury bubbled up again, but he stomped it down. Taking care of Sammy – that came first.

“You’re ok, little brother. Cas, help me get’im up.”

The two of them carried Sam to the Impala, gently slid him into the front seat and Dean looked him over for more obvious wounds.

“Dean.” Dean looked over to Cas who was frowning again. “There are more coming.”

“Who the hell are these guys?”

“I’m not sure. But I will find out. You tend to Sam. I’ll take care of them.” With a flutter of wings he was gone.

“Cas – the book- Damn it!”

Satisfied Sam was buckled in, Dean in the car on the other side and started driving.

He looked over every so often. Sam was still out of it, head lolling from side to side anytime they turned.

“Sammy?” Dean tried and was rewarded. Sam glanced over, dazed.

“..Dean?”

“Yeah. How you doin’ man? Feelin’ ok?”

“Yeah..I..yeah. Dizzy – tired. Okay,” Sam mumbled. “What, uh – what happened..? You..okay?”

Dean looked over. “Peachy.”

“Blood,” Sam said, nodding a little to the blood on Dean’s jacket.

“Right. Yeah. Just uh, doled out some much needed justice. Forget it. We’re gonna get you home, let you pass out, and in the morning I’m gonna have a whole pot of coffee with your name on it. I am so not envying the hangover you’re gonna have.”

“Not...I’m not drunk,” Sam muttered.  
  
“Yeah, well, it’ll feel like a hangover.”

Sam leaned against the side of the car, pressed his forehead against the cool window. “..sorry.”

Dean looked forward, locked on the road ahead. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“Lightweight.”

Dean laughed. Quiet and somber. “Yeah. We’ll work on that.”


	7. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I AM working on Truth Syrup & In the First Place (naruto) buuut I've been UBER busy with school. Luckily, that's all done in two weeks! Still, I've had a little block, so I've been popping into the OhSam nov prompts and loving them! Probably a few shorties coming from those :)
> 
> From the November 2017 OhSam Comment Meme fic thing!  
> Anything with Sam freaking out about Lucifer being in the bunker in S11 (either just because of cage memories, or because Lucifer actually does something). Sam&Dean gen.

 

It’s fine.

It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine it’s fine it’s ok.

He had to be here. He _had_ to be here because they needed his help. Because… last time. He helped last time.

It’s fine. Fine.

Sam walked the halls. Every so often his murmurs rumbled up, bounced off the walls and back at him like reassurance.

It was fine. It would be fine.

He just…needed time. Space.

He stood at his bedroom door, still like a breeze might knock him down. The bunker didn’t get breezes.

Sam slid inside, turned on all the lights, and sat on the edge of his bed.

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” Sam muttered, thumb digging into an old, pale scar on his palm. “You’re fine.”

“I’ll say!”

Sam was a statue. He was stone, frozen in place while Lucifer crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“Mighty fine, Sammy. Might - Tee - Fine.”

Sam looked up. The sight that met him - overcoat and tie and familiar blue eyes that burned with coldness. Ice that didn’t belong where there was usually unbridled warmth.

He stood, slowly, wanting to rip the archangel out with his bare hands because Castiel – _Castiel!_  
  
Sam knew. He remembered and the thought that Castiel would know now, too? Was suffering right now, between every breath and every heartbeat?

It made it all worse.

Lucifer watched him. Sam could read people – even cryptids and angels, demons.

Lucifer – he could _feel_ Lucifer. The way he could _feel_ Dean.

And it made him ill.

“Nice digs,” Lucifer said as he strolled into the room. He closed the door behind him. “Spartan. I always liked that about you, Sam. So… efficient.”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to Chuck?” Sam looked away, grabbed a book like he’d had some purpose for being in his room that wasn’t hiding.

“Aw c’mon, Sam. Such a thing as too much daddy time,” the devil smiled, “Know what I mean?”

Sam shook his head, headed for the door.

“Y’know something?” Lucifer started.

Sam stopped walking. His grip on the book tightened.

“I’m not a knock off kinda guy. But you get what you pay for, right?”

Sam looked over with a frown, his brows knit. “Okay.”

“And they never fit right. Crotch always rides up,” Lucifer adjusted himself. Sam looked away again.

“Then change. There’s extra clothes,” Sam muttered, baffled by the concept of sharing closets with Satan. He started for the door again, the door that was closed but needed to be open.

“Oh come on, Sam. You think Army Navy Surplus is my style? Cheap isn’t much better.”

Sam scowled and reached out to open the door. “Deal with it. I’ve got to-“

“I prefer custom-made.”

One hand on the doorknob, the other on the book, Sam white knuckled both. It wouldn’t open.

“It’s locked,” Sam heard from somewhere in his room.

“Chuck-“

“-is preoccupied with auntie. And so is big bro, for that matter. But hey, I mean, this is just like old times, right?” Lucifer said as he sank down on the bed where Sam sat before. “You and me? Four walls and no way out? Color me nostalgic.”

Sam let his hand fall, held onto the book like a lifeline, and turned around. He stared down, the face staring back at him distorted and not at all right.

“Square peg, round hole.”

“Are you really doing this? Now?” Sam said, “Chuck is right out there. My _brother_ is there.”

“Sam – Castiel here- it’s like squeezing into a size four when you’re a six!”

Sam tensed at the angel’s name, in that voice, in that _tone_. “Cas is…”

“Oh, brother’s distracted. Tucked away, but it was so much more fun with you, Sammy!”

He wanted to be relieved. Cas was safe, alive – but the relief was buried. Lucifer mentioned it, mentioned _then_ so casually. How it was, how it _felt_..

“For you,” Sam muttered.

“You can’t lie to me, kiddo. I was in your noggin’ – you and me, we’re-“

“The second this is over you’re back in the cage. And you’re letting him go.”

“Woah, ok. Cool your jets there, bucko. I mean, Castiel, he’s no name brand, but-“

“You’re going back.”

Lucifer stared up at him, just smiled and slowly stood. Shorter in the vessel, but he still loomed like a mountain. “Little brother’s distracted. He’s fine for now, but Sam, I’m not gonna lie to you, man.” He planted a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m just not sure how long I can guarantee it.”

Sam stared back, frozen in place under cold hand on his shoulder. “..you can’t.”

“I mean it’s not like _I’m_ gonna do anything, but who knows how long he can contain me, right? If something were to happen-“

“You _can’t_ – Chuck-“

“Knows. Didn’t say a word about it. Dad’s got his hands full with auntie – you think he’s gonna care if I have try on a few new outfits?”

“But-“  
  
“Sam, look,” Lucifer’s hand trailed down his arm, “I’d just, you know, think about how much you really like having Castiel around. Sometimes casualties just can’t be avoided. And it’s for the greater good, after all.”

Sam couldn’t move. Could barely breath, but he felt his heart hammering, heard his blood rushing.

“And when he can’t take it any more…well, I guess there’s always Dean-“

“Stop it.”

“I mean, he’s not my first choice, obviously. Something about the crotch, Sammy, I’m tellin’ you – always rides up-“  
  
“ _Stop_.”

“Only one word for that. And that ain’t it.”

Lucifer eased away. He walked to the door and pulled it open, spared a look past his shoulder to Sam who stared at the floor.

“See you out there, buddy.”

The door closed again and Sam stood alone in his room.

He’d take the couch tonight.


	8. Reunion Pt I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OhSam LJ November 2017 Comment Meme fic thing prompt:
> 
> Tim and Reggie (from 5x03) are still alive. Sam runs into them on a hunt. They're not happy about their last encounter.
> 
> ***Spoilers for S13 x 04 / SUPER AU lul** ** * !!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Pt I

* * *

 

 

 **Just** about eight years and change, that's the last he saw them.

In a bar, on a date, living a normal life. That time it lasted, what, maybe a week?

Dean had Jack with him, which was good Sam figured. They'd have to work out the issues at some point and no time like the present. That, and Sam wasn't exactly up to dealing with Dean, not after his whole outburst about mom in that therapist's office.

So Sam was on his own hunting down the shifter. Well, he had been til now.

Time'd been fairly kind to the hunters, only rare wisps of silver in their hair and lines in their faces. Faces that made it all too clear not much had changed in eight years and probably never would.

"Tim," Sam greeted with a nod. "Reggie."

The pair exchanged a slow glance before looking at Sam. Tim walked forward while wiping his hands on the bottom of his jacket. Blood. Behind them was the shifter, Buddy, apparently dealt with.

"Heard you boys might be in town. It's been a long time, Sam," Tim said.

"It was on its way to that office," Reggie muttered with nod to the shifter. "You'da missed it."

"Yeah," Sam said, "Job's done then, I guess, so uh. So thanks." Sam turned, ready to get out because the air was getting thick and it had been a long time since hunters looked at him the way they were.

"Just can't help it, can ya?"

Sam stopped, looked back at them, at their faces caked in blood and sweat and disdain.

"What?"

"Lying, Sam. You just can't help it," Tim said.

Sam frowned at him. "What are you talking about?" He wasn't 27 anymore. He wasn't some kid and he wasn't lying about anything, hadn't in a long time.

"That kid you got followin' you around like a puppy. Ain't human," Reggie supplied. Sam shot him a sharp look, muscles going tense because there was no way they could know. They shouldn't know about Jack, at least not anything important.

They couldn't.

"Couldn't help noticin' your brother's not too fond of him," Reggie muttered.

"But you don't care about that, do ya Sam?" Tim asked.

Sam glared at them, watched Tim walk toward the door and block it. Watched Reggie from the corner of his eye, noticed the glint of silver from his gun.

"He's just a kid-"

"Funny thing about that is that he ain't. Least rumor has it he ain't," Tim answered, "Demons talk. You remember that, don't ya? And they're sayin' some pretty interesting things about that kid. Kinda reminds me what they said about you."

"And they were right about that," Reggie grunted.

"Last I checked the world's still here. I broke things, I know that, but I fixed what I could. Jack hasn't done anything yet. You don't know that he will."

"You started the apocalypse. Admitted it," Tim said grimly. "We're not gonna let you do it again, Sam."

"My brother-"

"Is holed up with the kid and that shifter. See, shifter's no biggie. Figured some hunters woulda taken care of it. When we found out those hunters were you, though…"

"Sorry to disappoint," Sam cut in, his eyes moving between the pair. "But the job's done now, so-"

"It ain't, Sam. Not our job. See, we've been lookin' for you." Tim showed his hands, gun in one, and something that couldn't possibly be what it looked like in the other. "I've made my peace with Steve. We both have," he nodded toward Reggie, "But you got a supernatural nuke runnin' around with you. Maybe the kid's innocent, I don't know, but he ain't human, Sam. Like you ain't human."

"Kid needs to go. But we don't have the juice," Reggie added.

"That's where you come in."

Sam stared at them, tried to stuff down the shock. Years. It'd been  _years_ since he'd seen them, since he'd been in that…in that dark place.

"I don't do that any more," he argued, "It's not even possible."

"You ever tried?"

Sam glared at Tim. They were peeling back an old scar with a blunt knife. He couldn't do those things anymore. He …he didn't think he could. But then, he hadn't drank any… Sam hadn't reflecting on that path in a long time and it needed to stay that way.

"No," Sam said, "But Dean and I – we've got this. So thanks for the shifter, but I'm going-"

"You're not goin' anywhere, son."

Sam looked over to Reggie, stared down the barrel of his gun.

"You don't know what you're getting into. I'm telling you, Jack isn't the monster you think he is."

"Sure. Sure, right. But then, what about you? You're no monster, Sam, not without this," Tim held up the little vial filled with crimson, "All it takes is a shot, right? Maybe it's the same for that kid? Maybe somethin'll flip his switch."

"When it does, we'll be ready. We'll have a nuke of our own," Reggie said with a smile as he cocked his pistol.


	9. Reunion Pt II

"What's with you lately?"

No response. Not a friggin' peep.

"Sam!"

He jumped a little and looked over to Dean who stared back, brow raised. "What the hell, man? When's the last time you slept?"

_Two nights ago._

"What?"

"Sleep?" Dean pushed, leaning forward a little, "You look like crap."

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean cracked a half-smile then sighed. "I'm just sayin' you look beat. Was it the kid?"

Sam frowned at the accusatory tone. "No – no, we just have a lot on our plate. I…" he paused, clenched his fists, "guess I'm just distracted."

Dean watched him a few seconds longer and finally leaned back. He drew a hand down his face. "Sammy, look. I'm sorry."

Sam tensed, eyes locked on his brother.

"The way I was acting. That therapist's office? Wasn't right. I shouldn't've been such a dick," Dean trailed off, looking back and seeking forgiveness.

He found…what he found was…

"It's... you're fine. We're good," Sam assured him. He pushed himself up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

"That's it? Where the hell you goin?" Dean watched him, flabbergasted because Sam running away wasn't exactly the reaction he expected.

"Getting a little air."

Sam was like freakin' speed racer, up the stairs and out the door before Dean could choke out another word.

"Sam!" The door slammed shut. Dean stood, stared at the closed door, and felt the clammy claws of dread climbing up his throat.

Sam's face…the look in his eyes…

"Distracted..." Dean muttered to the quiet room, anger – and terror - bubbling in his gut.

* * *

_Eight years and change._

_Eight years and nothing had changed._

_Sam scrubbed his mouth with the wet cloth, scrubbed his skin raw. He wrung out the water, watched swirls of red spiral down the drain wondering maybe if some of it could've been saved. Did it need to wash away? Waste, wasteful._

_He swallowed, the lump in his throat stuck in place, and looked into the living room. A dead shifter and two seriously wounded hunters._

_Maybe mortally wounded._

_He did what he could. He did. Tim. Reggie._

_Not a lot changed in eight years, but apparently they learned their lesson from last time._

_Sam looked back to the mirror, stared down his own reflection and watched his own pupils, black pushing out the brown and hazel. He thrummed his fingers on the cool sink, tapped his toes, fidgeted because he felt it. With every heartbeat, he felt it pumping._

_Like sparks. Little jolts, like prickles and bites moving out from his belly to his fingertips._

_Eight years… and it still felt good._

_It felt so damn good._

_Like riding a bicycle, he guessed._

_He laughed at himself, a short, sharp and bitter bark of laughter, because eight years, one sip, and he…_

_Sam wanted more. He did. He shouldn't, he knew. Not okay, not at all, and…well, no panic room anymore, but they had the bunker, the dungeon and…_

_Maybe there – there had to be demons around somewhere, right? Crowley was gone, so they were probably out having the time of their lives._

_Just one more. For kicks. A last hurrah._

_No._

_No. It spiraled, this all spiraled out of control but he would pull back the reins. Dean would help – Dean would –_

_Dean…_

Sam stood outside the bunker. He'd taken a few steps, gone a few feet, and found himself locked in place, planted in the ground and trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Two days, two nights, and he needed… he  _needed_ it. Because it hurt. He would die, he'd die if he didn't get more. He needed it.

And meanwhile. Meanwhile, Dean was apologizing to him. Dean was sorry.

Sam hadn't seen Jack in two days and he'd been seeing as little of Dean as possible, too. Maybe they'd know, they'd see? Maybe it would seep out his pores, they'd smell it on him.

He couldn't bear this – and apology, now? Dean had shit timing.

Or maybe he had great timing. Maybe the problem was Sam.

In fact, he knew it was.

Sam had stuffed his hands in his pockets. In one, his fingers curled around the smooth hilt of a blade, one familiar enough that it molded against his skin like it'd been built for him.

He pulled it out, looked down at the metal, at his reflection in it. He watched blood trickle down it, phantom, translucent blood, a hallucination of what could be. What  _should_ be.

He stayed clean. Two days, he holed himself up in his bedroom with books, music – anything to distract. He hunted for hours on end, running on coffee and whiskey, but it was always there. A steady thumping at the back of his skull that wouldn't be ignored. That hadn't ever really gone away.

Sam needed help. He knew he did.

And he wanted help.

But…

But did he  _really?_

He saw them. Two females. He smelled them, heard the poison pumping through their veins.

When had he gone so far from the bunker? How far into the woods had he gone?

That didn't matter. His eyes locked on them. Prey. And they locked eyes, all of them. Pretty blue and brown eyes flooded with black, foul smiles stretching their lips.

"Little Winchester out here alone in the woods?" one of them, a red head, laughed, "Well isn't this a nice surprise."

Sam brandished the knife, felt himself mirroring their smirks. Thoughtful decisions be damned. The choice was made the second they entered his line of sight.

The laughing one grinned, started to charge, but the other jerked her back.

"Wait!" she hissed, "Wait. Look at him."

The red head looked at Sam, really looked at him hard. Her cockiness faded to reverence. Awe mingling with shock turning to bewildered amusement.

"You fell off the wagon hard, huh, Sam?"


	10. Reunion Pt III

“Sam!” Dean hollered, hands cupped around his mouth, “Sammy!”

Nothing. Nothing but his own damn voice bouncing back at him off the trees. “Get some air my ass,” he muttered, but the anger was thin. A small mask sitting on mounting fear. Dean hadn’t waited long. Needing air – he respected that. So Sam had ten – okay, five minutes.

Dean barely made it to three.

There were so many things, too many to count, that could’ve happened. Sam didn’t take off like this, not without saying something. And...if he did, he couldn’t get far. 

Not in two and a half minutes.

But, God (Chuck, sorry man) – what if something… possession? The tattoos, so no way. Angels, though? Those dicks were looking for the kid, so maybe they thought that Sam –

The kid…

Dean’s stomach dropped. Possession – heaven, hell – he could deal with those. Not like it was fun, but Dean could work with them.

But if this was the kid going bad, if he sent Sammy to another universe..

Dean froze.

Lucifer. Did that little- did he send Sammy…

Dean wasn’t sure when he’d done it, but his gun was cocked and he was busting ass back to the bunker to get some answers. He barely heard anything other than his own breath, his heartbeat.

And then in the distance he heard a soft, sputtering moan.

Someone was dying.

Dean’s heart jumped out his throat. Panic froze his blood, burned him from the inside. He ran in the direction it came from, burst through the woods at light speed because someone was definitely dying and the only person who could be in the area was his baby brother. 

“Sammy-!” 

And there he was. The big sasquatch, hunched over himself, still except for the subtle wave in his shoulders. Alive.

Dean lowered his gun, ran a hand down his face to wipe away the cold sweat, the relief turning to annoyance because he’d way overreacted here. 

Then annoyance burned, sizzled and boiled into anger. 

“Damn it, Sam! Didn’t you hear me shouting your name? What the hell, man! Damn it…” 

Sam’s subtle movements stopped. He was stone still.

Except for his hands. Dean saw them peeking out, just a little. They were shaking. And they were red. 

His eyes trailed down to the body he just noticed, the one Sam was straddling, the one that was bleeding out. And then it hit him like a truck.

Eggs. Rotten, old ass eggs. 

“S-Sammy…” Dean started, the name dying on his lips. Because no. Not now. It was a dream. A really bad, shit, alcohol fever dream because there was no way, there was no way in hell…

“Dean,” he heard Sam croak, “I need help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is short, but its all that was needed for now. IF there's a desire for it, I could keep going. Otherwise, I'm open for prompts. 
> 
> Thank you guys for commenting & kudosing.   
> Seriously, the comments are my literal lifeblood! I get giddy anytime I see'em


	11. All Eggs in One Basket (PT I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Suicide attempt
> 
> Prompt by cosmic_medusa: Sam contracts mono early at Stanford and essentially loses the semester, and then his scholarship. With nowhere to go and no way to pay, he attempts suicide. The school contacts Bobby, who tracks down John and Dean. Dean arrives in California to save the day. Gen please. :)

 

* * *

_"I'm sorry, Sam. It's been weeks."_

_"You can't do this. Look, I've been out sick. I e-mailed-"_

_"Once. Six weeks ago. Usually we work with students, but you've already said you haven't seen a doctor."_

_"I know. I know, but-"_

_"I'm sorry, Sam. I really am, but your scholarship was dependent on attendance and_   _grade point average. You being out so long – I'm afraid there's just no way for you to make up for it this semester."_

_"What can I do?"_

_"Well, you can retake these classes in autumn. Your admittance isn't being revoked-"_

_"Just no scholarship?"_

_"Right. I'm sorry."_

Over.

And over. On repeat, constantly. He could hear that woman's voice, hear his own voice, hear the phone call that followed, the " _We're very sorry to have to tell you_ …" and the " _We wish you the best of luck with your academic pursuits_!"

For a minute there, because of the normalcy of the last year, he considered student loans.

Yeah. Applying through FAFSA, mixing the Feds with the Winchesters? Solid plan.

Sprawled out on a bare mattress, Sam stared at his ceiling.

_"-effective immediately-"_

No rent money. It was due in three days. And his landlord wasn't the forgiving type. Sam'd been late one time three months ago and every month since the guy had been on his case like white on rice.

Winchesters had pretty solid immune systems. They didn't do sick, not really. Bloody and beaten, sure. Never killed'em. Just made'em stronger.

And he got taken out by mono. Freaking  _mono._

Sometimes, at night when the past crept into his thoughts and kept him awake, Sam theorized about what it would be that eventually got him. What would be the straw that'd break the camel's back and get him thrown out of school.

A shifter. He always figured a shifter – or maybe a ghost. Ghosts were everywhere.

In the worst-case scenario it'd be a demon.  _The_ demon.

Not mono.

It was so normal, so benign and unassuming that he barked out a bitter laugh and felt his eyes sting with tears.

He knew what it was when the fatigue and exhaustion crept in. Bed rest, lots of it. Sam basically hibernated through most of early spring.

Because kind of like student loans, the hospital hadn't been an option. Hospitals meant insurance and insurance meant questions.

No doctor's notes. No scholarship. No loans. No get out of jail free card.

And the kicker? The cherry on top of the crap cake?

He couldn't go home. Sam couldn't ever go home.

Dad made that crystal clear.

Even Dean was… even Dean had been so upset. And he'd been alone with dad for months now and Sam wasn't dumb enough to think they were exactly singing his praises. The two of them were probably better off anyway.

Sam wanted normal and he got normal all right.

It's just normal sucked just as much as the abnormal. Actually, it was worse. Because now he was alone.

Careful what you wish for, he figured. But then what was the other option? Live hard and die young like Dean planned on doing?

At least Dean and dad – at least they were saving lives.

Maybe Sam would… maybe he'd go out on his own? Hunt solo?

It was a pretty surefire way to get killed off quick. Sam was good, he knew his lore, but dad was the expert.

Stanford and the life that came with it was more out of reach than ever. No matter what he did, good grades, working hard, earning the scholarship and impressing professors and administration alike, it was all still ripped away so easily, like it was nothing. So maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Live hard, die young. No light at the end of the hunting tunnel.

Maybe that was the way to get through it.

Sam wanted to live. He wanted  _life_.

But it wasn't going to happen. It would've been ripped away at some point, by something. It was just bitter irony, God laughing, universal karma that it was something as mundane as an illness that did it.

Sam wanted to live for life, but life wasn't going to happen.

Sam would live for his family. But that door was shut. It wasn't going to happen.

Sam didn't want to live to die. And that's where the path, hunting alone, would lead him. Where it forced him to be.

Maybe it would be better for everyone to just duck out. Easy and quiet, like blowing out a candle.

He didn't want to think about it any more.

It was quiet, barely dusk, except for Sam's bare feet padding to the kitchen. He set a pencil and a post it on the counter and stared at it.

A note. It seemed like that was something he should do for this kind of thing, but who was he writing to? What was there to even say?

He had a lot of thoughts, lots of reasons, but really they all just blurred into one big mess, none of it coherent or important. None of it mattered.

He thought of Dean. Thought of dad. Thought of how they left everything between them, how twisted and ugly and angry it all was.

_Sorry_

Sam frowned at his handwriting. He turned and grabbed one of the sharper kitchen knives and walked back to his bedroom.

He eased onto the bare mattress, stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, and looked down at his wrist. Thick and blue, the knife cut through his vein pretty easy. Sam winced, it hurt, but it left an aftertaste. A weird sense of relief, like a weight on his chest floating away.

He laid back and closed his eyes, tried to relax himself, tried to ignore the pulsing wound, the steady stream of warm blood trickling through his fingers.

Brady found him in the same spot forty minutes later, unresponsive in a red pool that soaked into the mattress.

* * *

"Singer Salvage."

"Is this Robert – uh –Singer?"

"Who's askin'?"

"Mr. Singer, we've got you listed as a next of kin emergency contact for Samuel-"

Bobby white knuckled the telephone.

"-Winchester. Sam is one of our students here at Stanford. We've just learned that Sam is in the intensive care unit at Saint Margret's."

"You got any clue what happened?" Bobby asked, a million scenarios coming to mind.

The brief dead air on the other line was tense. Palpable.

"The doctor informed us that it may have been an attempted suicide. We wanted to advise you that Stanford is more than willing to work with Sam – we have numerous resources fo-"

"This hospital got an address?"

They exchanged information, the young man on the other line spewing hurried details, Bobby answering with indifferent grunts. The call met its abrupt end, Bobby hanging up the second he had what he needed.

Possession? Ghosts had pulled things like this before.

10 minutes and a bit of Internet digging didn't reveal hints of any kind of recent hauntings or mysterious murders in Palo Alto.

Demon. Ghoul?

Something. It has to be something, because it couldn't be anything else. It was something supernatural because the normal answer..?

The supernatural Bobby could deal with. Rock salt and a flask. Maybe a little iron for good measure.

Normal. Bobby had nothin' when it came to normal.

Couldn't do nothin'. Not a Goddamn thing.

John was an ornery son of a bitch but if he didn't pick up, well, Bobby  _could_ do a Goddamn thing in that case.

The phone rang twice, picked up on the third.

"Bobby," came the gruff, clearly unhappy hello.

"Sam's in the hospital."

And that's all it took.

* * *

_"Sammy..?"_

_"Dean-"_

_"Jesus – dad, look."_

**_Sam_ **

Someone held his hand. His wrist – it hurt. Tender.

_"Jesus- what the hell? He's not possessed?"_

_"I checked."_

_"Sulfur?"_

Silence. Dead quiet but so much said in a glance.

_"…Sammy, why… why would you…?"_

More silence. The grip on his wrist tightened. He winced.

"Sam?"

He peeled open his eyes. Two blurry silhouettes came into view. Two faces bled out from the shadow.

"Dad?" he croaked, "Dean?"

Relief. Relief and something else in their eyes. Pity? No. Not pity. But something..-

"I'm going to sort out the insurance."

"Dad, c'mon, now? Are you-" Dean's condemnation died on his lips. Dad was out the door.

Dean turned his eyes back on his little brother who looked little, pale and tired and as much a ghost as any they'd ever hunted.

"Sammy… what the hell were you thinking?"

It took Sam a long while, what felt like an eternity, to pull his gaze away from the righteous fury – the ocean of concern in those blazing green eyes. He looked at his wrist. Ugly purple and yellow skin peeked out from under the bandage. He'd cut deep.

Sam was no amateur. He'd cut to kill. So why hadn't he…. Why wasn't he...-

"Sam!"

Dean…was he…? No way, it-

"..are you crying?" Sam rasped.

"Bitch," Dean barked, glaring, gripping his brother tight, afraid if he let go then… "Sammy. You don't get to quit on me. You try it again, I'll kill you myself."

"Jerk," Sam softly replied, eyes back on his wounded flesh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys and your comments and you're totally awesome and I also really love having free time because school isn't sucking the life out of my like a shtriga anymore. Anyway, I'll be going back and revisiting some of the other stories I set up in here like Reunion and the Demon Dean one. Main goal is to get Truth Syrup finished as well as my Naruto story.
> 
> But I will keep updating this with random prompts because it gets the creative juices flowing and there's just soooo many good prompts on the OhSam LJ comment meme thingy. So... yea! Anyway, part II for this coming soon :)
> 
> Pls comment I loooove those notification emails it's like demon blood, so addictive.


	12. All Nightmare Long

_**Prompt** : _ _Sam is shaking and pale in the bathroom and Dean doesn’t get it. But Dean wasn’t the one under a love spell, flirting with Becky. And Dean most certainly wasn’t the one flirting with his torturer while Becky looked on, asking why he was calling the wall, “sweetheart.”_

* * *

 

“Damn it, Sam!”

The door rattled, Dean beating against it with all the fury of hell in one fist and sinking, stone-cold fear in the other. Sam’d been in there for ten minutes and it was ten minutes too long.  
  
One minute Dean’s in dreamland parked between the legs of some – well, anyway – and the next he’s jarred awake and watching the retreating figure of one extremely pale and sweaty little brother. And then a slammed –and locked- door in his face. Cherry on top of a crap sundae.

“Open the freakin’ door, Sammy!”  
  
Was that – yeah. He turned on the tap.

“I just-” Dean grimaced at his brother’s raw voice “-need a sec. Just – just gimme a sec, okay?”

Dean glared at the locked door because, uh no, not okay. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered in defeat, turning away and grabbing a chair. He tugged it over, parked down, arms folded over the top and began sentry outside the bathroom. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

 

Sam looked up from the sink his fingers clung to, knuckles white, and looked at the door. He could practically feel the ‘don’t test me, Sammy’ radiating from his brother on the other side.

Ten minutes was enough. It was all he needed. He’d be okay. He was fine.  
  
“You’re fine,” he murmured, catching himself in the mirror. “You’re fine.”

It was definitely not fine.  
  
It was rare – extremely rare as in he could count the times on one hand – that he wanted to kill a human. Sam pooled water from the tap in his hands and took a drink, choked it down his parched throat to push back the bile.  
  
Becky wasn’t… evil. Not really. She was sick. She was twisted and desperate and needed some serious counseling - but she wasn’t evil.

She shouldn’t be on Sam’s kill list, but here he was trying to talk himself off the proverbial ledge.

He could process her actions. Insanity, warped perversion – loneliness. They were all motives and while he’d been the target – _not a victim, a_ target – they were something he could find logic in, regardless of how distorted and bent they were.

Sam could process that. He could deal, put it to bed, and move on. Just one more step over a line that’d been blotted out so much by now it barely existed anymore.

No, Becky wasn’t haunting him any more than the usual nightmare of the week.

It was the poison she fed him – the drug she brought to a party that didn’t need any more crazy.

**_“So when’s the honeymoon, lover?”_ **

Sam pointedly did not look at the apparition in the mirror behind him. Blond haired and blue eyed, dressed in denim and boots and a wide and knowing smirk.

The potion – the _poison_ – wore off hours ago. The consequences weren’t wearing off anytime soon. It was the ultimate drunken blackout, but so much worse. Not even comprehensible how much worse, how much he’d ripped open the door off its hinges when he’d been trying so hard to board it up.

Sam leaned away from the sink and clutched at his bad hand, winced at the pain shooting from his palm when his nail dug in.

The hallucination didn’t so much as flicker.

But his smile grew.

**_“Sammy, after all this time you sly dog! I had no idea. I mean your bedside manner was terrible.”_ **

“Shut up.”

Crap. Stupid.

 ** _“C’mon bunk buddy, don’t get all shy on me now. Just yesterday it was you and me, the two musketeers about to ride off into the sunset.”_** The illusion paused, raised a brow, _“ **Cold feet?”**  
__  
don’t talk to him  
_ “It was the potion. Don’t flatter yourself.”  
_shut up stop talking_

**_“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart, Sammy.”_ **

Sam pressed his palm on the sharp corner of the sink, pushed into it with his full weight and felt the blood.

**_“Aw, c’mon. I’ve been good.”_ **

There was warmth, behind him. A body pushing against his, pushing his hand against the edge of the counter. Hard.

**_“You said so yourself last ni-“_ **

Sam barked out in pain, the corner digging too deep. He pushed back but there was nowhere to go. His eyes locked onto the steady stream of red pooling at his – at _their_ feet – on the tile.

**_“We had a good time, right? I mean the pet names were one thing, but the se-“_ **

“Just shut the hell up!”

“Sam?”

They glanced at the door. Sam swallowed, the lump in his throat only growing as universe’s idea of the worst imaginary friend possible ground against him even more.

**_“Big brother’s gotta work on his timing.”_ **

“I’m fine,” he called to Dean.

**_“I mean can you imagine the look on his face? This is pretty incriminating, Sammy.”_ **

“Get the hell off me,” Sam hissed.

**_“Get you the hell off?”_ **

Sam shoved off the sink, pushed and crashed them both into the far wall. Freed, he spun around, turned to face his tormentor, storm raging in the glare he cast him. He barely felt the throb in his stupid hand anymore – it didn’t help. It wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be.

**_“Really, Sam, is that any way to treat your ‘sweetheart?’ Domestic violence?”_ **

Sam almost laughed, felt it catch in his throat and threaten to strangle him. “Are you serious?” he managed instead.

The illusion looked affronted and folded his arms cross his chest. **_“What, the cage?”_**

Sam furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing. Drop after drop of blood still dripped from his hand.

**_“That wasn’t domestic abuse, Sammy. Love taps.”_ **

Sam glared and Luci-the hallucination smiled.

**_“That was penance. Education. Maybe not my most subtle work, but you haven’t forgotten anything, have you? Not one single thing leaking out those ears – other than your marbles, I guess.”_ **

“Sammy?”

They glanced at the door.

**_“Dean know the meaning of ‘third wheel?’”_ **

Sam turned away, unlocked the door with his good hand and stuck the gimp one under the running water. The door opened immediately.  
  
“About friggin’ time, man. What the hell, what’s goin- hey – you okay?” Dean grabbed his arm, tugged it back gently and examined the considerable wound with a grimace.

“Nightmare. I’m fine.”  
  
“Yeah, you look fine,” Dean muttered. He grabbed a towel and wrapped his hand, applied pressure, applied comfort and love and everything he always gave Sam.

Fixated, Lucifer watched and waited. Dean could have this moment. Lucifer was nothing if not patient. He and Sammy - they had all the time in the world. And then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm NOT dead and I'm NOT abandoning my stories! I'm just an adult and busy and I hate it x_x 
> 
> I'm doing a few challenges this upcoming month with rarepairs for inspirations' sake, but I am still working on Truth Syrup as well :) 
> 
> Thank you guys for your patience and I hope you enjoy. I don't know if I'll ever work out a schedule for myself, but I seriously need to kick my own ass and get to work.


End file.
